


second-best of wives and women

by rillrill



Series: Revolutionary Whore [7]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Bad Dirty Talk, Crossdressing, Daddy Kink, Feminization, M/M, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 20:31:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5554274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rillrill/pseuds/rillrill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“I…” He doesn’t have much to say. For once in his goddamn life, Alexander Hamilton feels as though he has been fucked speechless.</i>
</p><p>In which George Washington is terrible at dirty talk and Alexander Hamilton looks hot in an evening gown.</p>
            </blockquote>





	second-best of wives and women

**Author's Note:**

> Variations on "baby girl" aren't just for Lams fic, y'all!!!!
> 
> Also, as always, I'm sorry America.
> 
> Am on Tumblr @ [lizdexia.tumblr.com](http://lizdexia.tumblr.com) if you want to kinkshame me/prompt more of this stuff.

Visiting Mount Vernon is a treat after the war. It is just after the New Year, just after nine in the morning when Alexander arrives, Lady Washington having embarked two days prior to spend a week with Eliza at home in New York. Washington’s wife has always been so fond of Alexander’s, and Eliza’s eyes light up girlishly every time Martha’s name is mentioned. Perhaps, Alexander thinks, his wife is even less immune to the charms of the Washingtons than he is himself.  
  
Then Washington lays a heavy hand on the back of Alexander’s neck upon his arrival, and the notion vanishes with a shiver that runs through his entire body. If anyone else notices, they don’t make it apparent, but it is clear from the sidelong glance Washington shoots him that he is well aware of the effect he has on his former aide-de-camp. ( _Now an established lawyer_ , he reminds Washington, _a crusader for those not done justice by fate and working to ratify the Constitution to boot._ Washington only smiles and agrees.)  
  
“I’ll show you to your quarters,” Washington says, and as he leads Alexander down the hallway, the hand on the back of his neck tightens just enough to make him shiver again. Alexander looks up to meet the general’s warm, dark eyes, and sees them crinkle with the hint of a knowing smile. “I hope that you find our home as hospitable as my wife does yours.”  
  
“I am certain I will,” Alexander says. “The ladies may enjoy their time together, Father. You and I have business to attend to together.”  
  
“Indeed,” Washington says. “But not now. I have unfinished work of my own. You will dine with me tonight, won’t you?”  
  
“Indeed,” Alexander agrees, as he follows Washington through to the room in which he will stay. “But sir, I hoped to talk about—”  
  
“Ah,” Washington says. “Not now. Tonight, son.”  
  
Alexander swallows. “Yes, sir.”  
  
So they work separately in their own quarters, for much of the day. Alexander gets more done than he expected, speeding through a full day’s worth of writing in several hours. But he cannot pretend that Washington’s neglect doesn’t sting. He had certain expectations upon his arrival, that have been summarily dashed over the past few hours.  
  
Perhaps it was his own fault, he rationalizes. It was childish of him to expect the undivided attention of the general, regardless of how close they may have grown over the course of the war. This vacation is truly one of intellectual collusion, a break from his family to work alone.  
  
Except. At a quarter past five, he receives a note, slipped beneath his study door. It is in Washington’s hand, distinct and cramped, not one that holds the mark of a refined scholar. He opens it immediately.  
  
_Son —_  
  
_As Lady Washington is unable to join us tonight, I have need of your services over dinner. Please do me the pleasure of dining with me this evening in my private room. Half past seven. Dress for the meal. I have had proper attire delivered to your quarters. It would please me greatly to see you wear it._  
  
_Yours,_  
  
_G.W._  
  
Alexander’s further attempts at productivity for the day are shot. At a quarter ’til seven, he retires to his bedchamber, where he finds a hot bath has been drawn for him, the meaning implicit. He washes himself thoroughly, the perfumed scent of the soap floral and distinctly feminine. A harbinger, he knows, of things to come.  
  
This is not a new notion. During the war, the general often called upon either him or Lafayette to fill the place of his wife, claiming that he had grown wistful for feminine companionship. It was on these occasions that he was permitted to dine alone with the general, and often to share his bed as well. As perverse, as strange as the ritual was, he did not question it, for it brought him closer to His Excellency, and afforded them a measure of intimacy he had never otherwise felt with an older man he so desired to impress. However, they have not played out this game in quite some time. Alexander was almost certain that Washington had forgotten all about it.  
  
It makes him feel excited, and a little scared, the thrill of not quite knowing what to expect.  
  
When he sees the garments Washington intends for him to wear, he sucks in a breath, cannot help himself. He didn’t — Washington _wouldn’t_ — but how would he _know_? How would he be aware of this particular predilection of Alexander’s, the nights away from his wife he has stolen in her lace and silk? The fine undergarments Angelica has sent him from Paris, tucked away inside a box of cravats and ruffled men’s shirts, because _she_ knows? Have there been rumors circulating without his knowledge? Or has the general simply arrived at this of his own accord, further measure of just how in sync he and Alexander truly are in their desires?  
  
In either case, it’s not as though it matters. Alexander runs his fingers over the gown, noting with pleasure the smoothness of the fabric and the lace edging at the neckline and sleeves. He has never been one to shy away from flamboyance in dress, as his entire command in the Army could corroborate, but this is so much like the gowns he has seen women in Philadelphia wear. _Philadelphia,_ of all places, and it’s cut immodestly low so as to expose much of his arms and the top of the bosom he does not have. Washington, ever the completionist, has thoughtfully provided a pair of silken drawers for him as well — racy things, nothing like the sensible bloomers either of their wives are given to wearing — and silken stockings. Thus, freshly scrubbed, his damp hair drying in loose waves over his shoulders, Alexander begins the woman’s ritual of dressing for dinner.  
  
When he is finally dressed, the ensemble assembled, he looks at himself in the mirror and cannot help gasping a little in arousal, so taken with what he sees. The emerald green of the gown sets off his warm, tan skin strikingly, and the low neckline reveals just a hint of the dark, wiry hair on his chest. He feels elegant, not entirely feminine but as though he occupies some aesthetic space between the two extremes. The slide of the silk smallclothes against his skin, too, is absolutely sublime.  
  
He steps back from the mirror, relishing the soft swish of the skirt around his stockinged legs. He grins, perhaps a bit too broad, then cannot help it — he allows himself one coquettish little twirl. Just one.  
  
When his hair finally feels dry to the touch, he pulls it into a knot at the crown of his head, taking care to make it as sleek and elegant as he can manage. It takes a few tries, but he recalls the motions he has seen Eliza go through in front of the small mirror at their Wall Street home and does his best to copy them. The click chimes half past seven on his third attempt. He is late.  
  
  
“Alexander.”  
  
Washington’s voice is stern as Alexander crosses the threshold to his quarters. He feels himself flush as he apologizes. “Sir, I’m afraid I lost track of time—”  
  
“Never mind it,” says Washington, holding up his hand for silence. His lips part in obvious desire as those warm eyes rake over Alexander, who hesitates as he feels the weight of Washington’s gaze settle on him. He suddenly feels much more self-conscious than before. But it’s not long until the general steps aside, beckoning him forward with a short bow.  
  
“Lady,” he says, voice low and practically vibrating with lust, and Alexander feels his blood thrum.  
  
“Good sir,” he replies, and sweeps into a curtsy, his finest impression of his wife. He can be a Schuyler sister. He’s no one’s son tonight.  
  
Washington escorts him to the table, which is set with fine china and a finer-looking chicken. He sits down gracefully in the chair the general pulls out for him. It’s starting to feel more and more like a game now, he thinks, settling into the role in which he has been cast. He moves with a certain playfulness, keeping his back perfectly straight and upright as he reaches delicately for the silverware and the glass of wine Washington pours for him.  
  
He expected, perhaps, to talk of his law practice or the essays he is writing in collaboration with Madison and Jay. But Washington does not steer the conversation in such a direction, and only hums in carefully avoidant agreement when Hamilton does the same himself. Instead, they eat mostly in silence at first, with Alexander occasionally looking up with smirking eyes to see Washington watching him hungrily. His throat feels bare where a woman of higher esteem would have donned a necklace or a choker of emeralds to match his gown. His hand drifts to it from time to time, in the idle moments between bites and sips of wine.  
  
Finally, Washington clears his throat. “My dear,” he says, “darling girl,” and Alexander glances back up, taken aback by the new pet name. Washington is looking at him with such lust, and his voice is so clouded with it, that Alexander feels himself stir and stiffen in his silk underpants. The entire scenario feels so unexpected and hedonistic and perverse that at first it occurs to him to resist and keep his thoughts pure. This can’t be right. But his baser instinct wins out almost immediately — he has never been one for resisting temptation — and he stiffens further, biting back a gasp as he feels his half-hard cock brush against the silk and grow a little harder.  
  
“Yes, sir,” he says, batting his eyelashes as he takes another sip of wine.  
  
“Is the meal to your pleasure?” asks Washington.  
  
“Of course it pleases me,” Alexander says, choosing his words carefully. He enjoys this part, the intricate dance of seduction, the lead-up to the inevitable. “And is it to yours? From what I know of your pleasures, I imagine it would be. You seem a man with dryer desires, but I know your nature, your drive to let a richer taste settle on your tongue.”  
  
He sees Washington smile, always a welcome sight. “From what you know of my pleasure?” he repeats in amusement. “Yes, I suppose I would always welcome the sight of a bird so plump and glistening.”  
  
Alexander raises both eyebrows, a parody of mild affront. “Glistening?” he asks. “When have I ever glistened for you?”  
  
Washington rises from his seat, walking around to where Alexander is seated. The same heavy hand descends upon his neck again, feels like heat lightning down his spine. If he weren’t already hard beneath his skirt, he certainly is now.  
  
“Wasn’t it the last time I had you in my bedchamber?” Washington teases. “I oiled you up like a Christmas turkey…”  
  
This Alexander cannot help laughing at. His Washington, his Father, has never been one for eloquent, randy banter. The hand on the back of his neck tightens, and God, he is like putty, this man knows him so well, can play him like a violin. Alexander gasps, shudders again, and allows the general to haul him to his feet. He is unsteady as he stands, not as if it matters. Washington is so strong, he could keep him upright through a hurricane.  
  
Washington pushes him across the room and up against the wall, shoulders to the rich wallpaper, leaning down to brush his lips against Alexander’s. “Do you find my turn of phrase amusing?” he breathes, warmth coloring the sternness of his voice. Alexander, ever defenseless against his own impulse, smirks back  
  
“I find it quite dashing,” Alexander drawls playfully. “Your _eloquence_ is simply _unparalleled_ , your Excellency, the ladies all speak of it from here to South Carolina and all the way back up to Albany…”  
  
One hand brushes against the front of his skirt, where his cock is rapidly filling out. Alexander lets out a low hiss. “As is your impudence, young lady,” Washington says. “I could have known that a woman’s finery could not induce a lady’s fine manner.”  
  
“Perhaps you should discipline me,” Alexander says, dropping all pretense. They’ll do what they always do, Washington hauling him over his knee and spanking him with bare hands until he’s unable to bear much more, until they’re both trembling with desire and desperation. But Washington, this time, shakes his head.  
  
“An impudent woman is beyond correction,” he says. “And Alexander, if you can’t behave like a lady, I suppose I’ll have no choice but to treat you like a whore instead.”  
  
Alexander groans as Washington’s hand rubs against the front of his skirt again, this time grabbing hold of his cock and gripping hard enough to draw a gasp from his parted lips. Washington slides his other hand around to the back of his neck again, and Alexander is melting, is entirely helpless under these hands, would do anything his Father commanded. He nods, wild-eyed and feverish, as the general manhandles him around, pressing his face to the wall. “Please,” he manages to force out amidst his whirling thoughts.  
  
Washington yanks at the ribbon holding his hair up, letting it cascade down around his shoulders and pulling on it hard. The pain is sharp, instantaneous, and fades almost as soon as Alexander has felt it, making his cock jump and leaving him craving more. Then, without warning, the hand is gone, and he feels his skirt being lifted up to reveal his silk underpinnings. “Oh, you _did_ do the whole thing,” Washington breathes, and then adds, “Be a good girl for me, Alexander, and hold up your skirt for me. Keep it at your waist.”  
  
Alexander does as he is told, keeps his face pressed to the wall as he reaches down to take hold of either side of his skirt. Washington’s hands are kneading, massaging his ass through his panties, and his cock strains against them, a wet patch growing steadily larger on the front where they are just a smidgen too tight to comfortably contain his manhood. The general takes his time inching them down, letting Alexander writhe and buck his hips against the little friction the silk provides. And then they’re down at his ankles, and Alexander shifts his weight from foot to foot to step out of them as Washington’s hands return to his ass with renewed vigor.  
  
“Yes,” Washington murmurs as he kneads at both of Alexander’s cheeks, prompting him to moan and arch his back. “Plump as a pheasant, and just as delicious—” Washington spreads him wide, and Alexander is about to fire back a playful barb about the exhausted analogy when he feels the teasing swipe of a tongue at his entrance. He moans again, bracing himself against the wall and squirming as the general goes at him, soft licks becoming more insistent as he relaxes into it. He clenches at his skirt, fine fabric balled in both fists, keeping it properly at his waist lest Washington pull away.  
  
There’s a finger at his entrance now, tracing in light circles as Washington continues to lick him eagerly, and he arches his back, rocking back on it, desperate for more. Desperate to be filled. It has been too long, he needs this more than he can form the words to verbalize. Washington’s fingers are so thick, so large. One of them is nearly the size of two of Alexander’s. They fill him up in a way his own do not, hit him in places he can’t manage on his own. He has never known a pair of more handsome, capable hands than these. He could probably come just from his Father’s fingers stretching him open; he has done it before. He chances a glance over his shoulder to see Washington dipping his fingers in a little bowl of oil on the table. Washington. Ever prepared.  
  
“Father,” he gasps. “Father, please.” A third finger begins to circle his entrance, and he feels the chuff of a breathy laugh on the back of his neck. He gasps again, exhaling another “ _Father_ ” as it breaches him. He is so impossibly full, he thinks, wriggling back on the general’s hand. He can’t remember a time he felt so desperate to be fucked, still holding his skirt at his waist like a whore, panting a little as his neglected cock twitches.  
  
“Well,” Washington says. “You’ve certainly changed your tune, young lady—”  
  
“Yes, Father,” Alexander does his best to purr. He rocks his hips again as Washington flexes the three fingers inside him. One of them drags across that sublime place inside him, and sparks briefly explode in front of his eyes, prompting another whiny moan.

“Good girl.” And then the fingers are gone and Alexander whines again at the abrupt loss, the sudden feeling of emptiness. Washington gives his bare ass a hearty smack and steps back to survey him. Alexander has never felt so exposed, still holding his skirt up as Washington’s hungry eyes rake over him. He senses that both sets of his cheeks are flushed as he glances shyly back over his shoulder.  
  
“Please, sir—”  
  
“Manners, girl.”  
  
“Please, _Father_ ,” Alexander corrects himself quickly. “If you please, I need to be fucked.”  
  
Washington is silent for the moment as he begins slicking up his large, thick cock. “I suppose,” he says, “that could be arranged.”  
  
Alexander expects to brace himself against the wall. What he gets instead is Washington pushing him back around so as to face him again and kisses him deeply, without shame or hesitation. He’s still clutching his skirt as Washington grabs him around the waist and lifts him off his feet, bracing him against the wall and switching his grip to either side of Alexander’s ass. Thus balanced, Alexander has no recourse but to stare deep into the general’s eyes as Washington slowly, deliberately lowers Alexander down onto his cock.  
  
It is deeply intense, so much more than he expected. Alexander can’t hold back a long, wordless moan as the general’s cock presses into him. Washington’s strength, his power, are so complete that Alexander feels none of the anxiety or trepidation he senses should accompany such a precarious position. All he can focus on is the all-encompassing sensation, Washington’s massive cock stretching him ever wider and filling him more completely than either of their fingers ever could. When Washington is sheathed within him, Alexander instinctually wraps both legs around his waist, drops hold of his skirt ot throw his arms over those broad shoulders, and simply holds on as Washington begins to roll his hips.  
  
Alexander has never felt the general’s strength so much as he does now. He drops his forehead against Washington’s, his loose hair sticking to the sweat starting to bead on both their foreheads, kissing him messily. Washington does not falter, just stares him directly in the eye and tightens his grip on Alexander’s ass, pressing him harder against the wall as he fucks up into him with increasing ease.  
  
“Father,” Alexander murmurs, and then, overcome with the sensation and helplessness he feels in this position, “Daddy…”  
  
Washington appears to practically choke on his own tongue at this. His grip becomes even tighter, and his pace increases as he bites down on Alexander’s kiss-swollen lower lip. Alexander lets out another embarrassing, keening whine at the sharp, sudden flush of pain, his cock bouncing between them. Washington seems unlikely to last much longer, and Alexander is close, so close —  
  
With a choked groan, the general lets his head fall to Alexander’s shoulder, and just as Alexander can tell that Washington is nearing his climax, Washington takes a mouthful of Alexander’s neck-flesh and bites down, sucking hard. And this, somehow — both predictably and not — is enough. Alexander rides through his sudden release with a shout, his untouched cock spurting all over his lovely new dress, and perhaps taken aback by this, Washington is not far behind.  
  
The next few moments are a mostly-incoherent blur. Alexander is vaguely aware of Washington carefully lowering him to the ground and helping him to stand on unstable legs. The general kisses his forehead despite the beads of sweat on his brow, and holds him steadily about the waist, until Alexander has regained his balance and bearings. He suddenly feels ungainly and awkward in the dress that, mere minutes ago, had set him alight with lust.  
  
“I…” He doesn’t have much to say. For once in his goddamn life, Alexander Hamilton feels as though he has been fucked speechless.  
  
Washington, of course, has picked up on this as well. He kisses him again, this time leaning down to meet Alexander’s bitten lips, and quietly impresses a “ssh” there meanwhile. Alexander feels as though perhaps he should be affronted by this, but he does not. He sighs into it instead.  
  
When he returns to his bedchamber late that night, well-fucked twice more, he washes himself again with the cold remnants of the evening’s earlier bath. He runs his hands over the remnants of the silk dress that Washington had torn off him as soon as they returned to his own bedroom. And then, he sets to work with a quill, writing out an order to his tailor. He has sudden need of a ruffled silk jacket and breeches in a distinct shade of emerald green.


End file.
